


Bloodstained Teeth

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Can Take Care of Himself, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24398266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "There is blood staining his teeth. He can taste it, rich and red. Metallic, it burns as it drips down his throat."Jaskier runs into some trouble late one evening after a night at the pub. He does his best to defend himself, grateful for the fact that when things get particularly bad Geralt is there to have his back.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 712





	1. Sharp Teeth and Pretty Throats

There is blood staining his teeth. He can taste it, rich and red. Metallic, it burns as it drips down his throat.

He doesn’t know how much of it is his. Some must be, lip split, bleeding freely, running down his chin, tongue, bitten in the chaos, painful within its own right. He thinks he may have bit his cheek as well, maybe some of it is from that.

It would be so easy, so easy to let himself pretend, categorise each wound and tell himself that’s where the blood is from.

But most of it is not. He knows most of it is not. 

Most of it comes from the man lying only a few feet away, neck ripped open, blood still sluggishly leaking out, onto the dusty cobbled ground.

It wasn’t his fault. Or maybe it was. He shouldn’t have been there, drunk, alone in a dark alley, late after dark.

He knew it was a bad area, knew plenty of the folks in the area didn’t particularly like his travel companion, and seemingly by extension, him.

Beaten yet again because of the Witcher, why wasn’t he more surprised.

Gods, he had just needed to fucking piss. Just wanted a moment alone, away from the rowdy rabble inside. A moment to relieve himself and breathe in the admittedly still less than fresh air.

He only just barely got it, before his head exploded, pain flaring up, a blow sending him face first into the wall before him. Hears his nose crunch under the pressure, feeling the rough brick rip open his skin, lip split and bleeding.

He stumbles aside, head pounding, he can hear someone talking, jeering, but finds himself much too disoriented to make out the words.

Someone shoves him, sends him stumbling back into the wall again.

He blinks, hand out in a desperate attempt to defend himself, struggling to get his bearing. Another blow, cry of “bastard” and “monster fucker” ringing in the air. _Ah_ well at least now he will know why his head was being beaten in before he dies.

Still, he’s never been one to take things lying down, he swings back, somewhat surprised when the hit lands.

A short-lived victory, another punch to the head momentarily halting any of his attempts at defence.

There’s a hand closing around his throat. He chokes, panic setting in as he feels his feet lifting off the ground. He gags, hands grasping out desperately, somehow finding contact, a thumb shoved into an eye socket. He heard the man scream, felt the pressure leave his throat, sending him stumbling back.

He hears a shout, another body grabs him from behind, holds him still for yet another figure to strike him across the face. They follow it up with a punch to the stomach, the man behind him loosening but not releasing the grip on his arms, letting him hunch over, gasping. Listen to the laughs and cheers from above.

He twists, suddenly angry, rage surging through him. Rips an arm free, driving an elbow into the man’s crotch, hard enough to send the man to his knees, releasing his grip on Jaskier’s other arm as he falls. He takes the opportunity to punch the man, hand meeting nose, a sharp pain flaring up through his hand.

His mind flicks through the little training he has received, memories of Geralt showing him how to throw a punch. The warnings of what can happen if he does it wrong. _Fuck._

He doesn’t have time to ruminate, time to assess the damage, hands grab him, yanking him away and up, tugging him around. He finds himself unintentionally pressed against the man.

He moves without thinking, surging up, teeth closing around the man’s throat. tosses his head back, sharp and strong. Feels the blood pour free. Filling his mouth, drippling out, down his chin.

The man opens his mouth to scream, nothing but blood trickling out in its place. He rips himself free of the man’s grip, watches him fall, watches his knees hit the ground, hand reaching up to press desperately and uselessly against his neck.

He stands for too long, arms circle his chest, a voice slurs in his ear, “fucker, as bad as the monster you travel with.” He pitches forward, throwing off the man’s balance, sending them both stumbling forward, his body once again slamming against the wall.

The man lets go, swearing, regains his footing, lunging forward, red and angry.

Jaskier lifts an arm, gasping, desperate, but ready for the blow.

A blow that never comes, it takes him a moment to realise, standing there, panting. Before his brain catches up to the fact he should have been hit already. he drops the arm, sees the body, pinned against the wall, stopped short by the sword sticking out of its chest.

He follows the blade up, past the hilt, along the strong, muscled arm, to find Geralt’s cold and emotionless face.

Almost emotionless, lips curling only ever so slightly, hinting at the layers of emotions hidden below the surface. Jaskier doesn’t have mind enough right now to even try to guess what emotions those would be.

Leans back on the wall. Takes in the scene before him. There was more than he had expected, at least 4 of them, from the bodies he can see.

4 cut down by a sharp blade, which means…

He doesn’t want to look down. Doesn’t want to see. But part of him needs to. Eyes slowly lowering, lets himself look at the final figure.

He is accustomed to brutality. To death and all that comes with it. He has seen more than one corpse in his life. Ones brutalised worse than this. Men cut in half, ripped to shreds, limbs torn from bodies, true savagery.

But somehow, in this moment, none of that mattered.

For in this moment, the body was the worst sight he had ever seen.

It slumped forward, head twisted at an unnatural angle, and the neck- oh gods the neck.

The wound lacked the smooth cleanliness of those cut down by Geralt’s blade. It was… messy. Rough edges of muscle and skin hung off it, bone poking through, cracked and broken. 

The blood still seeping out of it, pooling into a slowly expanding puddle, the edges of which is only just starting to lap at the toe of one of Jaskier’s boots.

He blinks. Blinks again. Lets his eyes unfocused, still staring at the body but no longer truly seeing it.

He realises he’s cold. So cold, a freezing numbness settling into his bones.

He can feel his hands shake, muscles twitching, moving of their own accord.

There are hands on his face. He shouts, yanks back, arm raising to strike the new offender.

Geralt catches the arm easily, lowers it, places a hand on his shoulder, grunts out a, “Jaskier, focus.”

He shakes of the arm, tries to ignore the continuing tremble in his arms. Spits out a desperate, “I’m fine.”

Geralt grunts, eyebrow raised, but doesn’t comment. Returns the hand to his shoulder, tugs Jaskier in closer, guiding him carefully around the bodies, back towards the inn.

It’s not until they step in through the doorway that he realises how they must look. How he must look. Blood running down his chin, soaked into his doublet. His own wounds equally bloody in their own right.

He cradles his hand to his chest, presses close to Geralt, lets his numbness overtake his fear, glazed eyes blindly sliding over the room.

Geralt’s presence is enough to hold off any questions, the man quickly bundling him upstairs, into a room he assumes is theirs.

He sits on the edge of the bed, numb, so numb. Mouth filled with blood. He thinks he should move, clean his wounds, reset his throbbing nose, bandage his aching hand.

He tells himself he will, tells himself he’ll get up, cross the room, wipe his face clean, dig free his supplies. And yet… he does not move, cannot move. Limbs heavy, head heavy, body numb.

He finds he doesn’t have to, Geralt moving for him, pressing a cloth to his mouth, wiping away the worst of the blood. The Witcher continues, guiding him through undressing, setting aside Jaskier’s doublet and undershirt. He flinches when Geralt runs his hands over Jaskier’s chest, fingers tracing the bones, insuring they are still in one piece. He tries to hide his discomfort at the touch, stay still, numb, not flinch away every time Geralt presses against a bruised or battered patch of skin.

Geralt runs a hand over his arms, checking them as well, reaches his hand. He doesn’t manage to hold back the gasping whimper when Geralt forces his hand open.

He lets out a choke sob, shoving his other arm into his mouth to stop any further sounds. Geralt presses the hand back, testing if it can still move, and Jaskier’s vision goes white. He yanks the hand back, curled around it, trying not to cry.

He feels the tears, threatening to fall, hot and burning in the corner of his eyes.

“Jaskier.”

He shakes his head, refusing to look up, spits out a raspy, “I’m fine.”

Geralt snorts, places a hand on his back, rubbing in small circles. “Jaskier,” his voice is low, gentle, encouraging.

He shakes his head again, but does his best to straighten, lets Geralt take up the hand again. Lets Geralt turn it, gently, biting back more sobs.

He doesn’t manage to stop the sobbing cry from spilling out when, in bandaging the hand Geralt tugs just slightly on the side of too tight. He feels his bones shift under the pressure, the cry breaking free from his lips, body pitching forward.

He straightens. Shoves his arm back into his mouth, determined to make it through the rest of it.

“Jaskier.”

He bites out his one response, a sharp, “I’m fine.”

Geralt sighs, presses a kiss to the bandaged hand. He looks up at that, frowning. Frown deepening at Geralt’s response, “You’re not.”

“I-“

“You’re not, and that’s ok. You don’t have to be.”

He stutters, mind going blank. Geralt hums, returns the hand to Jaskier’s back, presses another kiss to Jaskier’s bandaged hand. “It’s okay, Jask, you don’t have to be fine.”

It hits like a wave, the numbness vanishing, the reality of his actions hitting him. The tears spill over, pouring down his face, pained sobs spill from his lips. He finds himself grabbing onto Geralt’s shirt, twisting it, head buried into it, resting on Geralt’s chest.

He sobs, covering Geralt in tears, snot, and blood. And Geralt lets him. wrapping an arm around his shoulders, holding him close. Murmurs, “It’s okay,” into his hair.

He doesn’t know how long they stay there. His sobbing ends, sorrow giving way to exhaustion, lets his eyes droop, press into the comfortable warmth of Geralt’s body with an exhausted sigh.

Geralt shifts, cloth returning, wiping clean his face. Geralt steps back, finishes his task, dabbing at Jaskier’s cuts and scrapes, checking his swollen nose, thumb lingering on the split in his lip.

Geralt brings him water, pressing it against him, doesn’t let him pull away. Makes him take some into his mouth, swirl it around, spit. Ignore how red it now is. Geralt pushes more on him, makes him gulp it down.

A loose shirt is handed over, Geralt helping him tug it on, before pushing him back, onto the bed.

He goes willingly, body so heavy with exhaustion, head starting to pound, pressure building behind his eyes.

He wraps a hand in Geralt’s shirt when the man tries to pull away, pulls him back, pulls him down, onto the bed beside him. Geralt follows, mercifully without resistance.

He presses his head to Geralt’s chest, feels Geralt run a hand through his hair. He thought he was done, thought he was too tired for anything but sleep, but the tenderness proves too much, more sobs bubbling up, racking his body.

He sobs until his throat is sore, and somehow even then it doesn’t stop, silent sobs raking his body even after his throat has closed up.

Geralt holds him throughout, maintains his soft mantra of, “it’s okay,” pressing light kisses to Jaskier’s head.

It isn’t, but maybe that is okay.

He stills finally, sobs subsiding. Tired, still clinging to Geralt’s shirt. Geralt presses another kiss to his head, leans back slightly, “Jask?”

He hums, tired, not wanting to talk, not wanting to move.

“How are you?”

He opens his mouth to mindlessly mumble out his classic, ‘fine.’ Shuts his mouth, frowns, opens it again, honesty slipping out a quiet, “… cold.”

Geralt hums, shifts around him to pull the blankets up, over both of them. Geralt lies down, tugging Jaskier gently down with him, letting Jaskier settle on his chest. He feels Geralt shift, getting comfortable.

His face creases into a frown, question slipping out, “you’re staying?”

He feels Geralt tense beneath him, every muscle going still, the answer comes slowly, Geralt speaking carefully, “If you’ll let me.”

He doesn’t respond, Geralt continues, “I can leave if you prefer.”

He whimpers at that, cringing at the sound, hand curling tightly in Geralt’s shirt.

“Jaskier, do you want me to leave?”

He whimpers again, head pressed against Geralt’s chest, hand still twisting the shirt.

“Jaskier.”

He manages to whisper out a quiet, “no.” Feels Geralt hum in response. Feels the man relax.

He lets himself relax as well, feeling the steady rise and fall of Geralt’s chest. Finally worn out, warm, and safe, he lets the sound of Geralt’s heartbeat lull him off to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like there's probably a normal number of times to write about characters having the crap beaten out of them, and i've definitely far surpassed it. - Equally i have no excuse for the amount of times i've broken Jaskier's hand... 
> 
> (Im tossing up adding a second chapter to this one.)
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	2. Sore and aching muscles

He wakes up alone, spread out in bed, bright sunlight flooding the room suggesting it was mid-morning at least. it doesn’t hit him right away, lying there, blinking in the light. He stretches, rubs the sleep from his eye, moves to sit up.

His wrist buckles the second he puts weight on it, pain flaring up, sharp and direct.

He drops, curls around the hand, gasping and biting down sobs.

It comes rushing back all at once, the alley, the figures, the beating he had taken – the taste of blood.

He pitches, throws himself to the edge of the bed, stomach contents threatening to spill out, onto the clean wooden floor. Mercifully, he manages not to lose his dinner, swallowing it back down, feeling it sink like a rock, back into his tense and clenching stomach. 

He sits back, realises he’s shaking, a cold numbness having settled over him in a thick, suffocating layer, dampening the world around him. Even the rays of bright morning sunlight feel like next to nothing on his now chilled skin.

He feels as though he is drowning, weight pushing in from every side, bearing down on him. heavy and thick, the world beyond his fingertips has become a muted blur.

He sucks in a breath, almost surprised at the ease at which the air moves freely through his lungs. 

Takes another breath, focuses on shaking hands, twisted in the worn blanket in an attempt to keep them still, manages to centre himself enough to let the rest of the world creep back in.

He can hear a bird, calling from outside, see the fraying edges of the fabric he’s holding. Hears the footsteps rapidly approaching the door.

He breathes a sigh of relief when it turns out to just be Geralt.

Geralt pushes into the room with surprising speed, barely offering Jaskier a glance before moving to grab their bags, shoving everything in reach into them.

He watches the Witcher, shoulders tight and tense, something wasn’t right.

Geralt turns to grab something, notices the stare, pausing to ask, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright.” It’s not a lie, not completely, he is, currently, in this one singular moment feeling comparatively alright. So long as Geralt doesn’t press, doesn’t ask any additional questions…

He’s almost surprised when Geralt doesn’t. instead Geralt returns focus to his task, quickly and efficiently packing away all of their belongings. Leaving out little more than a handful of medical supplies. The Witcher grunts out a “good,” not even looking back up at him.

He bites his lip, tongue running against the split in it, pressing down painfully. Teasing over a response. But before he has the chance to say anything more Geralt is yanking free a clean shirt from Jaskier’s bag, tossing it onto the bed with an offhanded, “Get dressed, quickly.”

There’s a cry from outside, distant and faint. He wouldn’t have even taken note of it, if not for the way the Witcher’s head snapped up at the noise, instantly on alert. He listens for a moment, to something much too faint for Jaskier to hear, before shoulders drop, tension bleeding out slightly.

Geralt returns to his task of packing, throwing Jaskier a look when the other man makes no start on dressing, “Quickly, we can’t stay long.”

Jaskier moves to dress, slow and clumsy, each movement alighting new aches and pains he wasn’t previously aware of.

He takes a moment to examine his chest before pulling the new shirt on, littered with angry red welts already beginning to bruise. The area around his ribs have blossomed into a deep purple.

The numbness seems to increase at the site, mind shut down, numbed and heavy fingers struggling to pull the new fabric over his head.

Geralt doesn’t seem impressed, stepping over to tug the shirt sharply down, over his head. He pulls in a sharp, pained breath, the fabric feeling like fire against his battered skin.

Geralt pauses at that, takes a moment to place a hand on his shoulder, soothing circles rubbed against his back.

The moment is brief, the Witcher quickly breaking it, stepping back and snapping, “Get your shoes on, we have to go.”

He once again obliges, this task proving even harder than the last in his current state, back aching when he bends to gather his shoes. He risks a look at Geralt, eyes running over tense muscles, noting the nervous glances the man throws ever so often towards the door.

“Geralt, what’s going on?”

The Witcher sighs, tossing a bag over his shoulder before answering, “they found the bodies, people are starting to talk.”

Another miscellaneous cry from outside, Geralt going rigid, listening, before thankfully relaxing once again, another false alarm it seems. Geralt sighs again, eyes flicking to the door, “the townsfolk here weren’t exactly the most welcoming before we slaughtered five of their men, it’s best we leave before it becomes a blood bath.”

He tries to ignore the way his stomach twists at the reminder of last night. Nods numbly, lets fumbling fingers tug on his shoes, follow the Witcher out. The cold numbness carries him down the stairs, through the inn, out the front door. The space passing by in a muted blur, missing the odd looks and quiet murmurs.

The cobblestones bring him back. They are the same, out front as in the back ally. Dirty, well worn stone, staring up at him. He remembers stone painted in blood, soaking through fabric, cold on his skin, sharp and tangy against his tongue…

“Jaskier!”

He blinks, swallows, lets the numbness settle back over him, wrapped around like a warm woollen blanket, pushing everything else away. Eyes flick up to Geralt, the Witcher motioning impatiently for him to follow. 

So he does, legs moving almost of their own accord, over the cobbled ground, trailing after the Witcher, trying not to think about the metallic taste still staining his mouth.

He almost wants to protest, when Geralt motions for him to get up on the horse alongside him. thinks of how sore his back already is, part of him reluctant to add any more strain. His hips as well, he realises, already ache, he can only imagine what a day in the saddle will do to his worn body.

Geralt huffs, increasingly impatient, and he once again relents. Geralt has made it clear time is of the essence, and it’s a rare enough honour within itself to be permitted onto Roach’s back, surly he can stomach a little more pain.

The Witcher has to help him up, arms trembling when he attempts it on his own, Geralt halfway yanking Jaskier up, into the saddle behind him. Jaskier settles with a heavy sigh, still shaking arms wrapping around Geralt, hoping he has the strength to hold on, to stay upright.

It’s fine, while they manoeuvre slowly out of the populated city centre, He can lean against Geralt’s back, concentrate on the shift of muscles, not letting his eyes wander to the townsfolk, not letting himself see their stares.

He can’t quite stop himself from wondering what he would see, if he looked. If they knew already, or if they would see it, painted within his own eyes. He wondered if he would see their anger, hatred, disgust, would it be worn so clearly on their faces if only he dared to look?

He knew in part it wouldn’t matter if they knew, they might look upon him in disgust all the same, because of who he is, because of where he is, arms wrapped so willingly around a Witcher, letting himself be ferried away by a _monster_.

Because he knew, for all the good he did, all the power of his words, woven, so neatly together, tight and precise, there would always be those who still despised them. those who looked upon Geralt and saw him as no more than a senseless monster, and by extension saw Jaskier as the same.

The men last night had been a reminder enough of that. 

He tries not to think about it, tries to lose himself to the numbness, or failing that, the shifting pains, settling low in his back with every step Roach takes.

That becomes easier, as they worsen, as Geralt pushes them on to a quicker pace, once outside the town centre. The man clearly wanting to put as much distance between them and the town as quickly as they can manage.

Jaskier understands the need, doesn’t complain, biting his tongue as each shifting jolt bounces his sore body, head bouncing against Geralt’s back, arms still trembling where they are wrapped around him.

They make it out, through sprawling farmland and beyond, into the thick wooded forest that surrounded the town.

Still, they did not slow, Geralt pushing Roach on, keeping up a quick pace. Jaskier is almost grateful for it, the rapid beat of hoofs on the hard ground, the heavy thud of the bags swinging and knocking as they move, the way each step bounces him up and down, keeping him shifting, alert. It fills his mind, staying focused on staying on, staying upright, leaves little room for anything else.

And yet, it can’t last forever, Geralt finally slowing around midday, finds a clearing to rest within.

He is grateful when the Witcher helps him down, worried shaking arms might lead to him falling if left to descend on his own.

He takes a moment to stretch, knowing it will provide little relief, his aches far too deep to be fixed by a few stretches. Still, the actions momentarily relieve some of the pain, if nothing else.

He lets himself settle, resting against a sizable rock located nearby. Ignores the way its rough surface digs into his skin, sharp and uncomfortable, too tired to find anywhere better.

Geralt tugs free one of their bags, fixes Roach’s reins so that she is free to graze. Jaskier watches as Geralt searches through the bag, tugging out bread and dried meats, passing a portion to Jaskier before settling down as well.

The Witcher watches him as he tucks in, eyes meeting briefly before Geralt looks away, watching Roach lazily graze. Not looking back as he asks, “How are you?”

Jaskier shifts, swallowing down the dry bread, unsure of how to answer. He goes for vague honesty, offers a, “…sore,” hopefully enough to appease Geralt, but not enough to tear off the numbing blanket, reveal his skin to the sharp air of reality.

Geralt sighs, nods sadly, “I know, I’m sorry.” He pauses, eyes flicking back over to Jaskier, “we should try to keep moving, if you can, not let ourselves stop for long.”

Jaskier shifts, stopping had given him a chance to truly feel every ache and strain, his back screaming out in protest against the very idea of getting back on a horse so soon.

He looks over at Geralt, realises the Witcher still looks tense, shoulders raised, eyes flicking to the trail behind them. He would have thought they would be far enough out for Geralt to relax, but perhaps he had misjudged, perhaps Geralt knew something he did not.

He follows Geralt’s eyes to the path, mind consuming images of angry villagers, a fiery mob, materialising out of the woods, ready to kill them.

“Do you think they will come after us?”

Geralt grunts, shakes his head, “No. But- news can travel fast out here, I think it would be best if we left this entire area behind for some time.” Geralt looks back at Jaskier, mouth opens as though to say something, but instead his brow creases, mouth snapping shut. He grunts again, takes a bite of the bread.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, trying to tease Geralt into voicing whatever thought he had just had.

Geralt sighs, looks back at Roach, but rewards Jaskier’s stare all the same, saying, “it’s a pity you couldn’t spend another night in a real bed, I know the forest floor wont be exactly kind.”

Jaskier smiles, having spent enough time to tease apart the Witcher’s words, see the depth and caring in them, responds with a simple, “thank you.”

Geralt only hums, quickly finishing his meal, before climbing to his feet, motioning for Jaskier to follow, “we should get going, if you’re up for it.”

“I’ll survive.” Again, not technically a lie, although Geralt has no need to know how close it comes to being one.

But again, Geralt doesn’t call him out on it, helping him back onto Roach, not commenting on the way Jaskier hissed and shifted in the saddle.

Jaskier wraps his arms back around Geralt, arms sore, but shaking less this time. lets his head fall against the Witcher’s back, tries to steady his breathing, time it with the shifting movement of the Witcher’s back.

Let his mind once again go blank, let himself trust Geralt to take him somewhere safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm enjoying this one, so may return to give it an actually satisfying ending at some point.


	3. Rough rides and pounding heads

As they continue on, he lets his mind wander, as much as it can, with the constant jostling movement of the horse beneath him. His mind returning once again to the evening before, still fresh and ever present within his mind.

He doesn’t know why it sticks with him so strongly, worming into his thoughts, mood alternating between numbed indifference and horror.

He had been in fights before, bloody bar brawls turned vicious, gotten too close to Geralt’s monster of the week, had to duck around swinging claws and sharp talons. 

But nothing like that. Nothing so… visceral. It’s as though he can still feel it, teeth sinking into flesh, crunching through bone, ripping through the man’s delicate throat.

He can taste the blood, heavy on his tongue, feel it dripping down his chin, cooling against his skin.

But that’s not what scares him.

What scares him is the feelings he remembers having that evening, the brief flash he gets from it even now, replaying the events.

The flash of satisfaction. Not just relief but fulfilment, pride.

He had felt strong, and for a moment he had relished in that strength.

That’s what scared him.

He shakes his head, tries to lose it, let his mind go blank, focus on the swaying step of the horse, the bouncing shift of Geralt’s body, pressed against his.

The movement is at least consistent enough to somewhat lull his tired mind, at least for a time. Body heavy, eyes drift shut, he is not truly sleeping, but not fully conscious either.

A jolt, he grimaces, surprised by the sudden movement, body thrown and aching, jaw snapped shut, head pounding. Lets out a pained hiss, arms drawing tighter around Geralt to maintain his balance.

He shifts. Settles. 

Realises he can taste blood.

He swallows around it, ready to ignore the phantom taste. It doesn’t leave, he realises he can really feel it, warm and wet, slick against his lips.

He swallows again, desperate. Yet it remains, there is blood in his mouth.

He realises he must of bit his tongue, its nothing, not important, barely a wound. Just enough to bleed.

And yet…

The taste is somehow worse than he remembered. Sharp and metallic. And warm. He had forgot the warmth. The richness, the depth, silky and smooth, like velvet within his mouth.

He chokes, pitches to the side, one hand clinging to the back of Geralt’s shirt, the only thing keeping him on the horse. Chokes again, spluttering, loses the little lunch he had managed to stomach.

He’s grateful for the acidic burn of stomach acid, sour and sharp in such a different way. It quickly coats his mouth, covering the taste of blood.

Geralt pulls Roach to a quick halt, waiting as Jaskier leans half off the horse, retching until his stomach is empty. He straightens, gasping desperately, rests his head against Geralt’s back.

His eyes flick down to the ground, seeing the dirty red streaks, mixed within his stomach contents, and retches again, bent halfway over, stomach heaving despite having nothing more to empty out of it.

He feels himself slipping, body suddenly limp and heavy, ready to tumble to the hard ground.

Geralt catches him before he can fall, twisting back and firmly grabbing Jaskier’s arm. The Witcher holds him as he finishes convulsing, empty stomach twisting and clenching painfully within.

He stays bent over this time, panting, sweaty head pressed against Roaches equally sweaty body, the thick sent of horse filling his nostrils.

Geralt grunts. Dismounting somewhat awkwardly around him. He tugs Jaskier down once he gets the chance, Jaskier’s shaking legs almost sending him tumbling to the ground on impact regardless of Geralt’s help.

Geralt grabs his arm yet again, stabilising him on unsteady feet. Digs out a carton of water, pressing it into Jaskier’s hands. He swirls it around his mouth, cleaning out both the remaining sick and blood. Spits it out, sips at the rest of the water, careful not to upset his soured stomach. 

“How are you doing?”

He takes a deep breath, spits out an, “I’m fine,” too tired, too pained to come up with a better response.

“Jaskier-”

“I said I’m fine!” He doesn’t want to do this here, half collapsed on the side of the road, stomach contents strewn in the dirt. Geralt had imposed upon him the importance of time, he doesn’t want to be the reason they don’t get far enough quick enough.

He can swallow this down. Tuck it away, get back on the horse and leave it as a mess to deal with later.

If Geralt lets him.

He risks a glance at the Witcher and knows that Geralt won’t. Eyes creased in concern; lip flared in annoyance, Geralt raises and unimpressed eyebrow at Jaskier’s lie.

He shakes his head, gods this isn’t the time. He won’t hold together if the Witcher presses, pushing comfort and care onto him. He will bend under the weight of honesty. Break. Ruin their chances to go on any further today.

Geralt grumbles, a heavy hand scrubbing over his face, turns away in frustration before turning back almost as quickly, looks Jaskier up and down, taking in the sweat soaking his brow, the still trembling legs, and before coming to an obvious conclusion, “next clearing. We stop for the day.”

“No!”

“Yes.” The word is sharp. Direct. Leaves no room for argument. not that that stops Jaskier from trying. Pain and exhaustion quickly channels into annoyance, the words spilling out from between his lips before he’s even had time to process them, “Oh, oh really Geralt, you’re going to stress, and I do mean stress, the need to keep going, get moving, as quickly as possible, and now. Now you’re just going to make the decision to stop! All by yourself, not even going to give me a say in it?”

“No.”

“Really, I’m fine! Okay- okay no-” He holds up his hands in placation at Geralt’s growl, “I’m not fine, but! But I will be fine, I am okay enough to continue.”

Geralt moves to ignore him, moves to swing back up onto Roach, set out to find a place for them to camp for the night.

He grabs Geralt’s arm, all but stuttering out the words, “I’m okay, really I’m okay.”

Geralt stills. Looks at him. The gaze feels piercing, painful. He looks away, unable to maintain eye contact, hears Geralt snort in response.

The Witcher sighs, dropping back from Roach, and with one question, breaks through all of Jaskier’s fake bravo and defences far quicker than it was fair to, “are you trying to convince me of that, or yourself?”

He feels it, like a punch to the gut. Drops his arm from Geralt’s, eyes sliding shut to absorb the impact, a half-pained whimper only just managing to slip from his lips. He sighs, swallows it down, down with the rest of the pain. Lets himself answer honestly, these words rolling so slowly off his tongue in comparison to the much prettier lies of before, “I don’t know… both of us I suppose.”

Geralt sighs. Pauses, staring up into the sky. He lowers his head to face Jaskier, runs a tired hand through his hair, pushing it clear of his face. Jaskier can see the weary heaviness he tries to hide sneaking into his face. Geralt sighs again, stealing the waterskin still clasped in Jaskier’s slick and trembling hands to gulp down its contents before he speaks, “Jaskier… have you ever killed someone before?”

“I’ve killed… things.” It’s true, he had. He had killed plenty of beasts, from rabbits to deer. There had even been a bear once. He knew how to take a life, how to stomach it.

Geralt sighs at the deflection, shoots him a tired look, “ever killed a man?”

“I’ve seen men die. In worse ways than that.”

Geralt snorts, nods, “I know. But… answer the question Jaskier, have you ever killed one?”

“…not like that.”

Geralt nods again, sighs again. “A death, like that, is… heavy. It sticks to you, until you deal with it. or find a way to move on.”

“…how do I do that?”

Geralt huffs out a half chuckle, shakes his head, “For you? for the first time?” He pauses, draws in a breath, “…slowly.”

“Slowly.”

“yes.” Another pause, Geralt taking his time to mull over his words, give them the weight they need, “It will take time Jask, let it take time.”

“Do I… have time?”

Geralt grunts, lip curling, “we will make the time.” He says it so assuredly, so certain. Jaskier can’t help but smile, a thin vein of warmth penetrating through the haze.

Geralt nods again, determinedly, shifting suddenly, turning to swing up into the saddle, offers an arm down to Jaskier, “come. We will find somewhere to stop for the night.”

Jaskier accepts the arm without protest. Lets himself be tugged up behind Geralt once more. Arms wrapped tight around the man once again.

He stays quiet when not long after Geralt pulls them to a stop in the first small clearing they encounter. Lets Geralt help him down, push him back against a tree and refuse to let him help unpack.

In truth its probably a good idea, to stop. To rest. His back is aching. Head heavy. Pounding he realises, his head is pounding. He didn’t expect that. Hadn’t been aware of it. The pounding, radiating pain.

He settles back, watching Geralt through half-lidded eyes, a newfound exhaustion settling into his bones.

Ready to rest.

Perhaps stopping wasn’t such a bad idea after all.


	4. tears and time

He must doze off, world slipping away, only coming back into focus when a hand on a shoulder gives him a rough shake, hears Geralt’s gruff “Jaskier.”

“I’m awake, I’m fine.”

Geralt snorts, but holds his tongue, instead taking the chance to tug Jaskier up, away from his unusually comfortable tree post, encouraging him to follow the Witcher over to the rather cosy fire Geralt had clearly taken the time to start.

He lets himself be guided down, onto a conveniently placed blanket, near the fire. Settles down, staring into the comforting warmth of the fire, tempted to let himself doze longer.

Geralt interrupts the idea, asking, “how’s the hand?”

In truth he hadn’t thought about it for a while now, keeping it curled against his chest when not clasped around Geralt, keeping him stable. He tries straightening it, slowly.

It doesn’t go well. The pain flairs up so abruptly. He finds himself doubled over, gasping. Manages to spit out an answer to Geralt’s question in the process, “Broken, it’s broken.”

Geralt nods, clearly unsurprised, motions for Jaskier to let him see it.

He does so, slowly, carefully, trying to hide the tremble in his movement. Geralt takes it gently, slowly unwinding the old bandages, setting them aside.

He hisses at the site, purple and swollen. Definitely broken.

Geralt hums sympathetically, gently turning and twisting Jaskier’s hand, testing the movement of the fingers and wrist. Jaskier bites back gasps and sobs at each movement.

Geralt sighs, “I should have… I’ll need to show you how to throw a better punch.”

He hisses in pain, nods, it’s… unpleasant to think about, the fact that this wound felt as though it was to an extent his own fault. His own messy, desperate attempt at self-defence, leaving him broken and hurt instead. He knows it isn’t exactly true, knows he had been running on adrenaline, mind hazy with booze, knows he… “I… tried.”

Geralt pauses, looks up from digging through a supply bag, a brief flash of… something, confusion maybe? Flash across his face. “I know Jask, I didn’t mean…” Geralt trails off, lets the sentence go, tugging free clean bandages, turns instead to focus on rebandaging the hand.

The Witcher winds the bandages tight. Tight enough to stop the wrist from moving, hold it all in place, stiff and sore.

He lets him, lets the aching pain serve as distraction. Tries not to think about how long the damage could take to heal. How long the hand will be unusable for… he won’t be able to play without it. won’t be able to perform, bring in money, help…

“I can all but hear you thinking.”

He focuses, eyes darting up to meet Geralt’s, looks away, offers a flustered, “sorry.” He hopes Geralt won’t press, doesn’t want to open that door, have that discussion now. He needs time, time to sit with it, accept it on his own first.

Geralt hums, doesn’t press him. Instead the Witcher offers a small smile, eyes staring off, says words Jaskier never would have expected, “you could blame me.”

“What?”

“For this, for what happened, you could blame me.”

“I don’t- I wouldn’t- why would I?”

Geralt huffs, lets Jaskier’s now bandaged hand drop, the bard instinctively pulling back, tight against his chest.

“It was because of me, they targeted you because of me, if you wanted to you could blame me for it.”

“Geralt it- this is hardly your fault, you didn’t- you couldn’t have known- this wasn’t your fault!”

Geralt hums, looking down, “It wouldn’t have happened without me.”

Jaskier snorts, “gods, Geralt you didn’t... this isn’t your fault. I chose this, I… continue to choose this, Geralt. Choose this life. “

The faintest of smiles ghost the Witcher’s mouth, lips curling over sharp canines, “I know, Jaskier. I just… needed to be sure.” The Witcher chuckles softly, seemingly more to himself than anyone else, and moves to settle back on the blanket, head resting on a bag, staring up at Jaskier, before he continues speaking, “I am sorry, for what happened.”

“It wasn’t your-”

“I know, but I can still be sorry for it.”

He huffs, shifts under the Witcher’s stare, its all too much, too soon. Too many emotions, pulling him every which way all at once. Looks at his hands in his lap, one bandaged so neatly, the other simply scratched and dirty. Gulps around the ball in his throat.

Geralt hums again, sifts, eyes drifting closed, getting comfortable. Seemingly oblivious to the overwhelming mess of emotion that had suddenly engulfed Jaskier. He’s tempted, to prod and poke and dig, a flare of anger bubbling up at the ease at which Geralt manages to settle back, clearly satisfied that all that needed to be said had been.

He twists the fabric of his shirt between his fingers, nervous ticks clearly reigniting as strong as ever. 

Geralt’s eyes slowly reopen, he raises a questioning eyebrow,

  
“I just…” he sighs, finds himself swallowing around a sob that suddenly spills from his lips. Hot tears slowly dripping down his face, shakes his head, he’s not even sure why he’s crying. It’s all just too much.

He feels Geralt take hold of his good hand with one of his own. Feels the man’s comforting squeeze, soft murmur of, “It’s okay.”

He laughs, hearing the increasingly familiar phrase. A wet, messy laugh, half cut off by sobs. Manages to swallow down his cries enough to stumble out the words, “why do you keep saying that?”

“So that you know it’s true.”

He laughs again, a desperate, crass sound, tinged with hysteria. 

It isn’t long before the laughs turn back into sobs, the cries pulling on his bruised and battered body, gasping desperately, trying to pull in enough air to sustain himself.

Geralt pulls him down. Presses him against the Witcher’s firm chest. A soft hand running through his hair, the other pressed against his back, rubbing gentle but firm circles against him. Geralt’s soft murmur of, “it’s okay” filling his ears.

He wants to fight back, protest, pull away.

Shout that it isn’t ok. It fucking isn’t. And thinking that it is… is bullshit.

Such protests are hard to make between sobs though.

That fact alone is enough to push his rage further, bubbling over.

He whacks his good fist against Geralt’s chest. Hard. As hard as he can. Does it again. And again. And-

Geralt catches the hand, gentle but firm.

He screams.

Geralt doesn’t react, keeps holding him, hums quietly and continues his soft mantra of “it’s okay.”

He cries out again, tries to yank free his fist from Geralt’s grip. Fails.

He finds himself collapsing against Geralt, frustrated and exhausted murmurs of “no.”

Geralt releases the hand.

He screams out again. Shoves against the Witcher, not the hard punch of last time, but a desperate, weak hit. Continues on with it, becomes a sobbing, angry, shoving and screaming mess.

And Geralt lets him.

He continues until screams and sobs turn to tired, whimpering sounds and hiccupped cries. Fist no longer driving against Geralt, now instead curled tight in the Witcher’s shirt, tugging desperately on it.

Geralt hums again. He feels it, radiating through the Witcher’s chest.

A familiar exhaustion settles within him. but this time… this time its mixed and mingled with a soft, comfortable warmth. He gulps, hiccups, timidly reaches an aching hand to wipe away some of the snot, tears and… blood, from his face.

He realises his lip is bleeding, torn back open during his… cries.

Geralt presses another gentle kiss to his forehead. Murmurs a soft, “Okay?”

It takes him a moment to register the fact that one was a question, not a repetition of fact. He cautiously looks up, watery eyes meeting the Witcher’s. he hesitates, trying to think of a convincing response- realises honesty is more than enough, and slowly nods.

Geralt hums again. He smiles at the sound. It feels… warm, safe.

He untangles his hand, presses it gently against Geralt’s chest.

“It will be alright. maybe not right now, but… in time, it will be.”

There’s a ball in his throat again, chocking emotions. He swallows around it, nods at Geralt’s words.

He’s not sure he fully believes them. Not yet. But maybe, he thinks, with time he will.

And maybe, with time, they will prove to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the world has been... a lot recently. look after yourselves.   
> thanks for reading


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